FANTASOPIA : WHEN MYTH BECOMES REALITY

The meeting room atop Virex HQ was sterile by design. No windows. No ornamentation. Only light, glass, and data.

The four commanders entered without ceremony, each as distinct as the class they led.

Elira arrived first, her stride composed, flanked by two elf-class aides. Her presence carried the precision of a machine and the silence of a whisper.

Vranos followed—suit tailored, eyes sharp, expression amused. He always behaved as though the meeting was optional, a performance he tolerated for formality's sake.

Brakka stomped in next, grease still staining his plating. He carried a tablet he had clearly stopped fixing mid-diagnostic.

Fenrir was last, hair damp from training, heat still rising off his armor. He took a position at the back, arms crossed.

Dray entered moments later.

The meeting began.

Reports and Rhythms

Brakka spoke first—maintenance reports, stress fissures in the west elevators, a suggestion to upgrade tower coolant systems.

Vranos followed with metrics on social influence, engagement surges in three metro-sectors, and a planned propaganda rollout in Ravellan.

Elira delivered her report crisply: internal coordination metrics, personnel integrity checks, logistics anomalies (none), and synchronization across communication threads.

Fenrir gave a minimal update. Security was stable. Training protocols were progressing. No breach events.

It was all too smooth.

Dray asked no hard questions. He nodded, absorbed, smiled thinly.

Then, just as the meeting ended and the others dispersed, Dray turned to Elira.

"Elira, a word?"

She paused.

Unusual. He rarely addressed her outside official directives.

Still, she inclined her head and followed him to the corridor. He didn't take her far—just to the quiet edge near the observation deck.

"How are you adjusting after the recalibration?" he asked.

A strange question. There had been no mention of any recalibration. Not in the official records.

She searched his face. It held something softer than usual. Not warmth exactly. Curiosity. Maybe guilt?

"I'm functioning well," she said carefully.

"No irregularities?" he pressed.

"No. Should there be?"

He smiled, vague. "Just making sure."

She waited for the real question, but none came.

Instead, he nodded and left, coat fluttering behind him as he vanished into another wing.

Elira stood for a moment longer.

Something about that conversation… scratched at her.

That night, while reviewing reports in her chamber, the door slid open without request.

Fenrir stepped in.

He looked at her for a moment, his golden eyes unreadable.

"What?" she asked, brow raised.

He didn't answer. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until he was standing close—too close.

"You're sleeping in my room tonight," he said.

She tilted her head. "Since when do you give orders?"

"I'm not asking."His voice was low. Calm. Possessive.

Elira could have resisted. Could have said no.

But something in his tone… and the strange tug in her own thoughts… made her follow without argument.

The door closed behind them, sealing out the rest of the world.

And for the first time since her last "maintenance," she didn't dream of data streams or command logs.

Only heat.

Only breath.